


Lines

by stillwaters01



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Episode Related, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post The Great Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:06:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillwaters01/pseuds/stillwaters01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three days after Moriarty and the pool, John was still rubbing his right ear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lines

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.
> 
> Written: Original idea: 1/18/13. Written and edited: 9/8/13 – 9/14/13.
> 
> Notes: This was one of those vague ideas that’s been sitting in a notebook for months and finally decided it was ready to be told. Apparently, I just can’t resist a chance for character study, exploring the subtleties of unspoken conversation, and working with the minutiae of John Watson’s body language. As always, I hope I did the characters justice. Thank you for reading and for your continued support. I cherish every response.

 

 

John rubbed at his right ear.

 

It had been three days since Moriarty and the pool. Three days of Sherlock pacing – brooding, frustrated, and manic-restless – through the nauseatingly thick tension of 221B while John sat still and silent in the background, reaching for his right ear with absent-minded regularity.

 

“What did he say to you?”

 

“What?” John roused from his thoughts somewhat sluggishly after two hours’ heavy silence.

 

“Moriarty,” Sherlock huffed impatiently, eyes on his mobile as he scrolled down a webpage, still pacing. “It’s been three days and you’re still rubbing your ear. He obviously said _something_ , so what was it?”

 

“Obviously,” John muttered, suppressing an eye roll at Sherlock’s self-assured deductive warm-up and utter lack of tact. “It’s been three days and you’re still _pacing_ ,” he countered.

 

“I’m _working_ ,” Sherlock snapped, correcting the observation with his sharply impatient ‘everyone is an idiot’ tone. “Your ear,” he demanded.

 

John bristled, any hint of surprise at Sherlock having determined the action worth discussing swiftly replaced by growing discomfort; the undeniable understanding that things were about to get very unpleasant, very quickly.

 

“He didn’t _say_ _any_ thing,” John shot back, not caring that it was, when taken in a completely literal sense, an obvious lie. “My ear’s been a bit sore, that’s all. It’s fine.”

 

“Don’t delude yourself, John,” Sherlock sighed.

 

John stiffened at the dismissive, condescending tone, fingers digging into the armrests of his chair, fabric crackling under his nails. “Excuse me?” he asked levelly.

 

Sherlock either didn’t hear, or chose to ignore, the dangerous undercurrent there. “You have a history of psychosomatic limping secondary to trauma suffered during your military service and have now spent the last three days rubbing at your right ear. Not both ears, just the right – the one where Moriarty’s earpiece was – so clearly a psychosomatic response to something said while you were held captive. Honestly, John, it’s hardly a difficult leap. Now what was it? It may be important.”

 

John pushed himself out of the chair. In the split-second it took to gain his feet, his initial, kneejerk response - pursed lips under a flash of pained incredulity - came and went, replaced by hard, guarded distance. His thin, bloodless lips pressed into a line as tightly disciplined as his attention-straight spine, fingers unfurling and clenching repeatedly, left hand half a step faster than the right, against tension-increased numbness and surging emotions. The skin over his knuckles, already straining under the dryness of a medical professional’s frequent hand-washing, split in several places under the added pull of his fist-clenching; small, ragged fissures, like cracks sprung in the earth from the minor tremors preceding a volcano’s explosive pressure release.

 

John was an intelligent man. Flexible, adaptable, patient. He knew, in the rational, trained part of his brain, that tensions had been running higher than usual since Moriarty’s reveal, and he was certainly no stranger to violently emotional outbursts from those in high-tension situations; people too wrapped up in their own stressors to be able to think about how their words might affect others. He was also no stranger to how Sherlock operated in general. There was, however, another part of John’s brain: that of the returning veteran who, while certainly energized and focused by danger to some degree, had also just been abducted and forced into a suicide bomber’s vest after serving in bloody Afghanistan. Who had spent the last several months being told that his limp and pain were all in his head while his doctors simultaneously ordered endless diagnostic tests in search of a physiological explanation. Being told, on the one hand, that his depression, nightmares, and increased need for personal space were normal, treatable responses to war but, on the other, to “cheer up, mate, it’s over. Move on.”

 

And that part of him?

 

That part _hurt_.

 

Sherlock had crossed one of John’s rare, indisputable lines; one set that much stronger in those moments where John was backed into a wall of emotional vulnerability. In the space of one breath, Sherlock had basically _trivialized_ what John had fought – _still_ fought – so hard to overcome; had glossed over it like some pitifully simple puzzle solved ages ago and no longer worth more than a passing summary.

 

All while never looking up from his phone.

 

At least the men who used to shoot at John had _looked_ at him. 

 

The left corner of John’s mouth pulled down and tight as the clenched muscles of his jaw and cheek spasmed into a misplaced nod. He swallowed down the hurt, livid, and - if he were completely honest - slightly disappointed, huff of air before it could escape, its complexity thick as desert-blasted air in his throat. Then, tilting his chin up, eyes straight and blank, he spun with impeccably unconscious military precision and strode for the door.

 

John’s foot was on the first step when Sherlock’s pacing ceased. Second step at the deep intake of breath preceding his name. Third at the name itself.

 

“John-”

 

But John’s response was as swiftly unsentimental as the man searching for what to say next. Without a single word, a single pause or shift in stiffly guarded posture, he continued down the stairs and out into the brisk London air.

 

John strode down the pavement, seeking out the quiet corner of a nearby park. It was one of his go-to spots; one that had enough sporadic foot traffic for the distraction of people-watching yet, overall, provided the lesser degree of external stimulation he needed when approaching overload.

 

He sat stiffly on one of the benches and found himself rubbing at his right ear – _mild, throbbing pain, skin stretched dry and tight, intermittent pruritis_ – with an irritated huff.

 

John didn’t deny that the ear was bothering him. What was _really_ bothering him, though, was that everyone who had noticed was suddenly a bloody detective. Mrs. Hudson brought him tea and insisted that he bundle up and get more rest. His colleagues at the surgery suggested an ear infection and took John’s refusal of an examination as stereotypical ‘doctors make the worst patients’ stubbornness, rather than the carefully guarded, desperate need for personal space that it actually was. And Sherlock…..

 

John cleared his throat with a rough cough.

 

It wasn’t that John didn’t appreciate the concern or suggestions, it was just…..too much focus. More specifically, too much focus on _him_. John was a background man by nature and happy that way. He was confident and competent without a need for constant validation; promotion and recognition made him uncomfortable. Hell, being the sole focus of his therapist’s attention was almost _more_ uncomfortable than being expected to bare himself to a stranger. So after not only being abducted and forced into an explosive vest that he vividly knew the effects of, John had been the sole focus, for several long hours, of a raging psychopath: Moriarty’s voice in his ear, face in his face, expensive suit fabric brushing against the prison of John’s new clothing as Moriarty circled him like a spider both wrapping and baiting its prey.

 

John sat for a long time, doing his breathing exercises and watching the stories of people walking by, waiting for the tense energy to ease down to a more manageable level. When he finally returned to the flat several hours later, it was to the particular type of quiet that indicated Sherlock’s absence. With a heavy sigh, John sank into his armchair and closed his eyes, hoping for the silent release of exhausted sleep.

 

Because he desperately, _desperately_ needed that space.

 

So, of course, he jolted awake two hours later to the sensation of warm breath on his face and the light scrape of Sherlock’s magnifying lens at his right ear. John’s hand shot out, the lens hitting the carpeted floor with a muffled thump as Sherlock’s fingers went nerveless in John’s sure grasp.

 

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” John demanded, incredulity at Sherlock’s lack of foresight tempered with an icy rage all the more chilling in its stillness; panicked breathing tightly controlled within the confines of near-crushing chest pain.

 

Sherlock went from oblivious to surprisingly intuitive, responding to John’s action by taking half a step back and making no attempt to break the hold. John found himself responding to the subtle validation and respect in that choice and quickly released him.

 

“I…..assumed,” Sherlock waved the newly freed hand, gesturing toward their conversation hours before. “Earlier. I assumed the action was psychosomatic because of your history, dismissing the most obvious possibility without proper investigation. _Stupid_ ,” he spat at himself. “Honestly, John, even _Anderson_ would have thought to look for it.”   

 

It was recognition of a mistake, an admission of guilt, and an honest apology all wrapped within the frustrated disgust Sherlock always displayed whenever he realized his brain had been affected by normal human stressors. It was a child’s “please don’t be angry with me” and a loved one’s “I hurt you and I’m sorry” in a tumble of scientific jargon, an outside insult in an attempt at levity, and a pause that John knew to read as respect and hope.

 

And while John was one of the few people who actually _could_ and _did_ read all of that, he was just too emotionally exhausted to deal with it head-on. So he fell back on the comfort of their usual private, coded communication; that intimately layered, circuitous dance they called friendship.

 

“Look for what?” John asked, pushing down the weariness and lingering hurt and dredging up interest in its place.

 

Something sparked in Sherlock’s eyes – gratitude and relief at an apology accepted as tacitly as it had been offered, mixed with a real, growing concern. “Signs of local irritation. Moriarty could have coated the earpiece with a topical agent before inserting it. Your ear shows clear symptoms of an inflammatory response and a deep red rash. Obviously not something immediately life-threatening, but I should be able to narrow it down….” He trailed off, moving over to the laptop perched on his own armchair, already researching potential poisons on his way to sitting down.

 

John filtered the conversation down to the clinical data, secretly both pleased and relieved that there was something to work with. It only took a few seconds before a small, private smile tugged at his tense lips. “Deep red rash?” he repeated.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded absently, eyes rapidly scrolling down one of his bookmarked databases. “It could be….”

 

Grabbing the opportunity to use one of Sherlock’s own moves against him, John stood up, grabbed the laptop while it was in mid-use, and settled back in his own chair.

 

“John-” Sherlock blustered as John began pecking at the keyboard.

 

“Wait,” John insisted, focusing on his search. “There,” he pointed, turning the laptop as Sherlock came around to John’s left side. It was a picture of an earpiece similar to the one Moriarty had used, accompanied by the manufacturer’s listing of materials used in its construction.

 

Sherlock scanned the data, face darkening as the answer wasn’t immediately apparent.

 

“What do I do when I’m not chasing you all over London?” John’s prompt was fondly amused, yet completely devoid of even the barest _hint_ of condescension. One of the ways John centered himself was by helping others: whether by using his medical training to heal, his military training to protect, or his intuitive understanding of brilliant consulting detectives to bring back the clarity of focus.

 

This was a shot at equilibrium. For _both_ of them.

 

Sherlock felt his mind clear in a way that was distinctly attributable to John. Of course. John was a doctor. And a doctor would look for…..

 

“An allergy?” Sherlock ventured. The question, however, was delivered more like a statement, accompanied by an underlying groan of disgusted anger with himself for not having even _considered_ such a simple possibility.

 

“Contact dermatitis,” John confirmed, a minute tilt of the head indicating his own self-chastisement. “Bloody earpiece probably had latex in it.”

 

Sherlock frowned, eyes moving as he searched his internal data system for a significant reference. John had never said anything about a latex allergy. He generally used the latex gloves provided at crime scenes, although he _did_ occasionally pull a pair of his own from one of his numerous jacket pockets; the brightly colored nitrile ones favored in Molly’s lab. So not anaphylactic-level allergic but……

 

“And you,” Sherlock breathed, hands steepling under his chin as it all came together, “like many medical personnel, are sensitive to latex.”

 

“Yeah,” John nodded, reaching for his ear with a muted wince. “I try to avoid it where I can. The reaction I get isn’t severe, but it _is_ uncomfortable.”

 

Their eyes met over the glow of the computer screen.

 

And the room, as if 221B were a person itself, let out a breath of relief so palpable that the tension all but disappeared.

 

Equilibrium restored.

 

“Shouldn’t last much longer,” John said, passing the laptop to Sherlock and getting to his feet. He moved around the right side of the chair and grabbed his coat from the back of it. “But I’ll just pop out for something to calm it down a little.”

 

“Good,” Sherlock agreed, dropping the laptop onto his own chair and gathering his coat and scarf.

 

John stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, the dry edges of cracked skin from the earlier breaks scraping against the inner seams as he lightly clenched his fists. The need for space and solitude was still lingering, crackling on the periphery of his raw, exhausted nerves; he had hoped to go out to the shop himself. But something flashed across Sherlock’s face when they stepped out into the late evening air; something so swift and subtle that most people would have doubted they’d ever seen it at all. But John not only _saw,_ he _understood_.

 

The two men walked down Baker Street with the familiar ease of old friends, Sherlock giving John half a step more space than usual as silently as John pretended that he had company, not because Sherlock was worried about his safety, but because there was still work to be done.

 

And Sherlock thought better when he talked aloud.


End file.
